


Microscopic Fics (From a Microscopic Attention Span)

by sansbanshees



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 05:23:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansbanshees/pseuds/sansbanshees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A place to gather the little things for the many, many Dragon Age ships I have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bethany/Alistair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bethany/Alistair

**Joint Property**

 

It’s strange to think of it as their tent and not _her_ tent. Or his tent, rather. Bethany’s was a tiny, paltry thing, full of holes that she’d had to spend hours patching herself, lest lonely Wardens got ideas and peeked in on the off chance that she might be changing or something more compromising.  
  
Stranger still was her free access to his things. Like his shirts. Those were her favorite things to appropriate, though she all but swam in them. Perhaps it wasn’t so much that she was free to use them--she simply stole them and that was that. After days spent in tight, clingy mage armor badly in need of a wash, she rifled through his bag until a shirt close to clean surfaced. Even buried at the bottom of his pack, it still smelled like him, like sword oil and soap. Definitely better than the socks strewn about the edge of his side of the bedroll.  
  
She slipped the shirt over her head after wriggling out of her usual attire and settled back into the bedroll, flailing the too long sleeves with a laugh before rummaging through her own pack for the single book she’d managed to nick from Isabela’s stash, curiosity having gotten the better of her after proclaiming it inappropriate, and drifting into the vulgar prose as she waited for Alistair to finish whatever unwinding he was up to after such a long patrol.  
  
It was hours before he finally came crawling in, stumbling and awkward on hands and knees. She set her book down on her chest, and shifted to raise herself up as he sidled up next to her.  
  
“You’re awake!” Alistair announced brightly, flopping down halfway up the length of her and rolling over to nuzzle her hip, arm slung lazily across her waist.  
  
“You’re _drunk_.” She scolded, with a quiet laugh.  
  
“Mm. And you’re soft... How are you so soft?” He murmured. “Hey. Hey. This is... Is this mine? This is mine, you thief,” he went on to accuse, tugging at the shirt end.  
  
“Do you want it back?”  
  
“But you’ll be naked,” He reminded her, pausing for a moment as realization bloomed bright in his eyes. “Yes. Give it back.”  
  
“You’ll have to take it from me.” She countered, setting the book aside to level a challenging smile his way.  
  
“Don’t think I wont.” He said, flashing her a smile just devious enough to promise a night she could look forward to.


	2. Bethany/Nathaniel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bethany/Nathaniel - nsfw tumblr askbox fic for seimasin

It’s been ages since they’ve had any time alone, and that doesn’t look likely to change in the near future. Swarms of darkspawn come from all sides the closer they get to the broodmother’s lair, and there’s no time to breathe, let alone have each other like they want to, but in a surprisingly quiet moment of reprieve, with their comrades not 20 feet away, Nathaniel pulls Bethany into the tight fit of an obscured alcove, and crushes his lips to hers with little more than a whispered _I missed you_ by way of greeting.

She lifts to the tips of her toes, wraps her arms around his neck to pull him closer, gasping into his mouth when she feels the press of his thigh between her legs, the warm, solid bulk of it sparking heat so sudden and severe she thinks she’ll burst into literal flames at any moment.

He breaks away, takes her by the hips and pulls her forward, the friction so achingly good she has to bite her lip to keep quiet—as if the others don’t know already, of course they know, there are no secrets here—and she takes that guidance and runs with it, rolling her hips and burying her face into his chest, muffled moans spilling out despite her attempts to stop them, the thud of his heart the rhythm in which she moves, fast and then faster, too close too soon, so she drags him down with a hand at the back of his neck and presses her mouth to his, breath hitching with a sharp gasp when she flies apart.


	3. Solas/Female Trevelyan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr ask meme fic - Wearing Each Other's Clothes

Given a choice in the matter, Evelyn prefers to wake up gradually. She has always been an early riser, but there is still a process involved. Awareness first, and then a gradual fluttering of her eyelids. Slow. Unhurried. It isn’t something she usually gets to indulge in, which makes it all the more enjoyable when she does have the opportunity.

An incessant knocking upon her door takes the choice out of her hands this morning. She rolls away from Solas’s sleeping form, and lifts her head to confirm the source of the noise.

“Inquisitor!” An urgent voice calls.

Her feet hit the floor in an instant, instinct taking over to guide her through the hurried act of dressing. There is no time for fresh clothes from her bureau—whatever she left on the floor last night will have to do. She jerks a shirt over her head, and searches blindly for something with the vague feel of trousers to pull on before she dashes across the room. She pauses only to shove her feet into the pair of boots she’d abandoned by the stairs last night, and rushes down to fling her door open.

One of Cullen’s men is there to greet her. He takes one look at her, and his cheeks color so brightly, she can see it even in the dim torchlight. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Inquisitor, but Commander Cullen requests your presence in the War Room.”

She forces a smile, and waves off the apology. “Don’t be sorry. Did he say why?”

“We’ve received information that could lead to Samson’s capture,” he answers, stepping back to allow her passage through the hallway. “More than that, I can’t say.”

She nods. “Thank you for retrieving me.”

She sets off for the War Room, pushing up the too long sleeves of her shirt as she goes.

Eyebrows raise on each guard’s face as she cuts a path down the Great Hall, and Evelyn immediately attributes it to the undoubtedly wild state of her hair. She smooths down what she can, but refuses to spare more than a fleeting thought to self-consciousness. This is urgent. What she looks like doesn’t matter.

“Inquisitor.” Josephine greets when Evelyn pushes through the door to her office. A smile spreads across her face when she takes in Evelyn’s appearance. She is, of course, as put together as ever, bright eyed and dressed in her usual attire, and Evelyn can’t help but feel a _little_ unprepared. “Shall we join the others?”

“What is it? Is my shirt on backwards, or—” Evelyn glances down. “Oh.”

Her boots are on the right feet. Her trousers are laced—she thinks, anyway. It’s difficult to tell, what with the narrow flap of what is distinctively not her shirt hanging down to her knees.

Well. This isn’t at all embarrassing. It’s not as if her relationship with Solas is a secret, but the intimacy of wearing his things is… new. Not unwelcome—and surprisingly comfortable—but still. New.

“It’s… warmer than mine?” Evelyn plucks at the heavy knit with a sheepish smile. “We should go. Let’s just go.”

Despite the amusement alight in her eyes, Josephine takes pity on her. “After you, Inquisitor.”

Of all of Evelyn’s advisors, Leliana is the only one not to react. Cullen spares a moment upon her entry to smile and shake his head, but urgent business takes over soon after.

They plan the mission to intercept Samson down to the letter, a mission Cullen insists on joining personally, and after an hour or two, she is able to return to her quarters.

Solas is awake, stretched out on the bed with a pillow stuffed behind his head for support, a book in hand that he appears to be engrossed in. His legs and feet are wrapped, and his breeches are on. The high-necked undershirt he usually wears is next to his feet at the foot of the bed.

He lowers the book as she sheds her boots, a small smile forming when his eyes meet hers that she can’t help but return.

“Is that… Swords and Shields?” Evelyn squints to identify the cover of his book when she approaches. “I didn’t know you were a fan. Varric will be delighted.”

“Varric is aware that I’ve read his work,” Solas says, not at all embarrassed by her discovery of his reading material. He closes the book, and sets it aside. “Though fan is something of an overstatement, I think. His plot twists are terribly predictable.”

She mounts the bed, and crawls over to curl up at his side. “Don’t let Cassandra hear you say that.”

He cants his head, curiosity piqued. “Why?”

“No reason!” Evelyn rushes to answer, voiced pitched high, her promise to Cassandra remembered too late. “I don’t know that about her. And neither do _you_ , because she will murder me. Literally. Once Corypheus is dealt with, I’m next.”

“I heard nothing.” He assures her with a chuckle, reaching to curl an arm around her. “You were called away early today. An urgent matter, I take it?”

She nods. “Leliana’s scouts found Samson’s latest location. We’ll be leaving in a few hours.”

“Ah.” He glances down, a smile playing at his lips. “I will need this back then, if I am to accompany you.” He tugs at the sleeve of his shirt.

She buries her face into his chest with a laugh. “I’m sorry. It was there. I didn’t have time to see whether or not it was mine.”

He chuckles. “There is no need to apologize. You wear it well.”

“You’re sure you need it back?” She lifts her head, a half smile tugging into place. “It’s just… It’s warm. And it smells like you.”

He leans in to press a kiss into her hair. “I suppose I can spare it until we depart.”


	4. Evelyn Trevelyan (Solas/Trevelyan mention)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr ask meme fic - Fistfight
> 
> (Or, Evelyn's first bar fight)
> 
> TW: Misogyny, Use of Slurs

As far as tavern drinking goes, Evelyn is still trying to get her bearings. A drink by itself is nothing new, but the atmosphere, the noise, the sheer amount of stimulation—all things that require certain adjustments. Still, she tries, because she wants to, because she has never been able to. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

A dark haired man she does not recognize approaches the bar as she orders a drink, and tries to buy it for her. He is finely dressed, clearly a man of means.

She declines. Politely.

His offer is kind enough, but it is a point of pride to do these things for herself.

She rejoins the Chargers, settling in as Krem regales the group with a particularly wonderful story involving Bull caught quite literally with his pants down, and fighting his way out of an ambush with his _everything_ on full display.

Evelyn laughs so hard she cries.

“I knew they were there. Reward just outweighed the risk, is all.” Bull winks at her with his good eye.

Later, when she goes for a second pint, the same man approaches.

“The offer’s still open,” he says, not unkindly.

She smiles. “The offer is appreciated. Thank you, but no thank you.”

“Why not?” His tone doesn’t change, but something in his carriage shifts, and while she is not at all threatened by it, it feels as though he wants her to be. “You’re not too holy a symbol to muck about with them.” He jerks his head towards the Chargers. “Why not me?”

She snorts in disbelief. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“You have no idea who I am, do you?” He scowls. “My family has supported your Inquisition from the beginning. Your coffers? Full of our gold. I think you owe me something for the trouble.”

“And I think you’re an entitled prick that needs to walk away from me.” She says it cheerfully, with a smile on her face, a practice that never failed to land her in confinement in the Circle, and one she never could break herself of. “If you’re smart, you’ll do it now.”

The Chargers have gone silent behind her, and she can feel the weight of their attention on the scene unfolding between her and this man.

“You okay, Boss?” Bull’s offer of assistance is implicit.

She turns, and nods. “I’m good. Be with you in a moment.”

“Frigid bitch.” The man grits out, his eyes narrowing into slits. If that’s the worst he can think to say, she can handle it. “You think people don’t see you, ducking into side rooms with a knife-ear, of all things?” He fumes. “But one of your own isn’t good enough?”

Now she is angry. Her smile thins into a hard line. “He’s worth more than a thousand of you. Get out of my sight.”

He steps forward, nostrils flaring. “Or what?”

She doesn’t bother to answer the question, choosing instead to fling the contents of her tankard at his eyes to throw him off guard. By the time her fist connects with his face, her entire hand is sheathed in solid ice.

He drops like a stone.

Chairs scrape against the floor as the men he was with start to rise, but the Chargers are faster.

The brawl itself is short, and surprisingly clean, given the stories she’s heard of how tavern brawls usually go. The only thing that litters the floor are unconscious bodies.

When it’s over, Evelyn allows herself a moment to whine, cradling her unmarked hand.

“What’d you do, break your thumb?” Bull guides her over to Stitches, who confirms his suspicion. “You don’t punch a lot of people, do you? Thumb outside your fist, Boss. Never in.”

Maker, that is not a lesson she’ll soon forget. She’s sustained countless injuries in the field, but this—this is just embarrassing. None of the Chargers have a so much as scratch, and here she sits with what is so far the most idiotic injury of her entire life.

Worth it, but still embarrassing.

“If any of you breathe a word of this to Solas—” She swears, and bangs her other fist on the table when Stitches sets the bone back into place. “I will end you.”

Sera chooses that moment to scramble down the stairs, cackling like a madwoman as she races for the door. “Bet you can’t catch me before I find him!”


	5. Solas & Female Trevelyan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr ask meme fic - Someone's Greatest Fear
> 
> *Custom Trev

Mal is afraid of a lot of things.

Spiders, for one.

Templars, for another.

Neither of those are so great a fear that confronting them leaves her all but paralyzed.

Not remembering falling into the Fade the first time when she falls into it again at Adamant comes very close.

There are pieces of her scattered everywhere, memories so easily stolen by this Nightmare demon, and fighting to get them back is made even harder by the tight knit in her chest, the way her throat constricts with every breath, panic rising when she realizes just how much has been taken from her.

The others aren’t faring much better than she is. The Nightmare taunts them, and while it breaks her heart to hear it, it also steels her, resolution calming the frantic beat of her pulse to a steadier rhythm.

They are going to survive this. All of them. And this demon is going to die when she gets back everything it took from her.

When they find the graveyard, she averts her eyes when she realizes what is inscribed on each grave. These—they’re _private_. Stripping her friends bare like this, their greatest fears on full display—the violation only stokes her resolve higher.

Solas stands apart from the group, peering down at what she assumes is his own marker. His face betrays nothing as he reads the inscription. She doesn’t mean to read it when she approaches, but her eyes catch sight of the words before she can stop them.

“That’s not going to happen.” She touches his arm with a gentle press of her fingertips, and it seems to draw him back. He blinks, and turns to look at her. “It won’t.”

“Perhaps.” He says, his voice wound tighter than usual. "Who can say what is to come?"

“Come on.” Mal nods towards the path that leads further into the Fade. “We’ve got a demon to kill.”

If only it could actually be that easy.

In the end, Alistair is left behind to fend off the demon. He won’t hear any arguments to the contrary. When Mal passes safely through the rift with what is left of her group, a decision must be made on what to do with his Order now that they are subdued.

She should exile them. She _should_. It’s the logical choice, after what they’ve done. They are a danger, proven beyond the shadow of a doubt, and not only because they are susceptible to Corypheus’s influence.

Her conscience, though, reminds her of a similar rhetoric, one used to justify exiling her own people from the world, locking them away for the actions of a few, for the sheer possibility of what could happen if they were allowed to wander freely. She wants to listen to it. She wants to, so badly, but she can’t.

For the first time since all of this began, she follows her head, rather than her heart, and when she exiles the Wardens… it feels like a piece of herself falls away, the first of many to come. For days, she endures it, refusing to break until she can find a quiet place to do it in private.

Mal slips away from camp when morale finally starts to lift, the stirrings of laughter around the fire providing ample distraction to disappear without anyone noticing. She wanders down to the lake they are camped near, and sits at the shore.

Moonlight filters through the passing clouds overhead, and splinters off the gentle waves on the surface of the water. The tranquility of it pulls at something inside of her, and for a moment, she resents the sight, is tempted to touch a hand to the surface and freeze it all. Cold hangs over her like a shroud, the heat of her breath pluming out like so much smoke in the frigid air.

It isn’t like her to lose control like this.

“Inquisitor?”

Her magic retreats like a startled hare at the interruption, cold rushing back in so suddenly she shivers at the shock of it burrowing beneath her skin. When she looks up, it is to find Solas standing just to the side of her, peering down with mild concern.

“Maker’s breath, you scared me.” She says.

“I apologize. It was not my intention to startle you.” But rather than excuse himself and leave her to her solitude, he remains. “I do not claim to speak with authority on the subject, but you… do not seem yourself, Inquisitor. You have not since we left Adamant Fortress.”

It surprises her that anyone has noticed. For a moment, she doesn’t know what to say.

“I sent them away. The Wardens.” She finally says, glancing down as she speaks. “I did that.”

“I see.” Solas sits down beside her, close enough to feel the ambient warmth of him like a balm on her frost bitten skin. “You’re worried that you made the wrong decision?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I think it was the right decision. I just—I don’t want it to be.”

“War is, by its very nature, unfair. Regrettable actions must sometimes be taken to serve a greater purpose.” He pauses, turning his head to catch sight of her. “That you were able to be mindful of the risks their presence would pose, despite your desire to give them another chance… It speaks more of you than you realize.”

“That I was _able_ to be mindful?” She turns to face him. “You didn’t think I could?”

He looks at her, not unkindly, but neither is he sheepish. “You are—exceedingly kind, Inquisitor. Often to a fault. I admit to wondering what you would do when the gentler choice was not the wisest course to take.”

His honesty is not precisely a comfort, but she appreciates it; particularly the avoidance of gentling its delivery for her benefit. Few people grant her that courtesy. “What’s the verdict, then?”

“Well.” He straightens. “We are still here. You have effectively ripped an army of demons out of Corypheus’ clutches, and by sending the Grey Wardens away, there is little chance that he will ever realize that goal. That is something.”

“Yes.” She agrees. “I suppose it is.”

They sit in companionable silence for a long stretch of time, and while she doesn’t necessarily feel better, she is closer to acceptance. The weight of Adamant will never leave her entirely, but this war will have its costs. Others have given everything to stem the tide—she can do no less.

“Do you think it ever gets easier?” She asks, quietly.

“No.” His answer is decisive. “The moment it does… That is what you should fear.”


	6. Solas (Solas/Female Trevelyan implied)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr ask meme fic - Coming Home

When Solas slips away after Corypheus has been slain, he does not allow himself to look back.

One glance from her is all it would take to keep him from his duty, one word and he would devote himself to her utterly, never to leave her side again, and that—cannot happen.

He thought it would be easier this way, never knowing her touch, never allowing any professions of deeper feelings to be made, but it is not. Their friendship alone was a grave oversight on his part, and he feels the loss of it keenly now—she has always been his friend first, and everything else second. That he thought himself capable of losing her in any respect feels the height of foolishness, in hindsight.

He avoids the places he knows she will be in the months that follow, abandons any schemes within a wide radius of her location until she moves on. It hampers his efforts often—she travels constantly, offering continuous aid to even the least impacted places in the wake of Corypheus's defeat, rarely stopping, as if she's forgotten how be anything but the Inquisitor.

His people in the Inquisition tell him that she is unchanged, that she smiles often, that her generosity extends far beyond what it should, as it always has. They say that Skyhold has become a sanctuary for all mages that seek it, one that firmly rebuffs any talk of reforming the Circles.

He is not surprised. He has always known that Skyhold would be a haven under her command, that she would use his fortress well. Still, the information stirs a sense of warmth. She has never failed to impress him, this human woman that radiates kindness like sunlight.

There are whispers, almost two years after his departure, that the mark is degrading, an inevitability he knew would surface eventually, even as he hoped it would not. Acquiring it should have killed her outright—that she has held it this long is nothing short of miraculous.

He hasn't the power to remove it, not yet. If he did, he would have gone to her the moment he learned of the danger she is in.

One look, he tells himself. Just one, to gauge her condition, to see how long he has to build his strength.

He knows it is a mistake, even before he decides to do it.

That does not stop him.

There is a celebration in the Bannorn, one she is reportedly encouraged to attend by Josephine, to soothe Ferelden's growing animosity towards the Inquisition. He finds a place among the crowd to watch the the procession of arriving guests, nobles first, then dignitaries, and finally—

Mal.

He is not prepared for what the sight of her does to him. It is all he can do to stop himself from approaching, from surrendering himself to her mercy—and she would grant it, he is certain of that. She would welcome him into the home he would make of her embrace. That he cannot allow himself to do it is a wound that will never heal.

But with the hollow ache her presence brings, there is also such overwhelming fondness—for the rigid posture she favors when she is on display like this, the too tight smile she plasters on to mask her discomfort, which only serves to enhance it. She does not resent what she is made to do, but she has never taken well to being paraded about like the symbol she is encouraged to be.

She looks… tired. There are shadows beneath her eyes, her face thinner than he remembers. Both hands are encased in gloves, and the marked one clutches the reins of her horse tightly, finite trembles all but invisible to the casual observer, which he is not, particularly when it comes to her.

It is too dangerous to seek out the anchor’s magic, to feel for himself how far it has progressed—she will feel his attempt inside of a heartbeat and he did not risk the journey only to be discovered now. At a guess, she has but a few months left. It is not much time to acquire the means to remove it, but it will have to be enough.

He will make it enough.

He leaves before she gets too close to where he is standing. He is not certain of what he would do if she sees him.

No.

He knows exactly what he would do.

And she is a home he can never return to.


	7. Abelas/Female Trevelyan - Modern AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ugly Christmas Sweater

Evelyn is not usually prone to impulse purchases.

In this case, she’s willing to make an exception.

It is, without a doubt, the ugliest thing she has ever seen, and the visual it conjures when she entertains the idea of buying it for Abelas—

She has to.

She leaves the thrift store with what is possibly the proudest smile she has ever worn, a flimsy plastic bag swaying from her hold as she continues on her path towards the apartment they share.

Abelas isn’t home when she gets there, which works out perfectly. She takes her time in boxing up the monstrosity she’s bought him, and wraps the box meticulously, all neat edges and crisp folds. She digs through the tote she’s drug out, rifling through all her gift wrapping supplies until she finds the largest bow in her possession, an explosion of shiny curling ribbons in blue and silver, and sticks it on the top left corner.

The label she saves for last, taking her time to form the graceful, looping letters of the name she bestows upon him this time of year, the one that makes his eyes roll.

“Perfect.” She proclaims, and places the finished product beneath the live tree Abelas carried up four flights of stairs, just for her, and begrudgingly helped her decorate.

She’s barely standing back up when she hears his key in the door, and she races across the living room to sprawl nonchalantly across the sofa, as if she’d been there the whole time. He’s coming through the door when she notices that she’s left all of her supplies out on the table.

Oh well.

“How was work?” She asks, offering a beatific smile when he turns to look at her.

His eyes narrow in suspicion. “No different than any day before.”

“I think I have something that might make it different.” She nods towards the tree, and the lone present sitting under it. “Special delivery.”

“It is too early for gifts.” He approaches the tree, cautiously, as if he expects it to explode in a shower of pine needles. “I take it this is your doing?”

“Maybe.” Evelyn smiles. “You should open it.”

“Now?” He casts her a dubious look. “I have no gift for you yet.”

“You opening that box is gift enough.” She’s ruining this, she knows, but she is too eager to see his reaction. “Please?”

He lets out a long-suffering sigh, but crouches down to pick up the box she’s wrapped so immaculately, and brings it with him to sit beside her on the sofa. “Will I be met with a shower of confetti when I open this? Sparkles? Glitter? A loud noise?”

She feigns a pout. “Does that sound like something I would do to you?”

He snorts. “Do you truly want me to answer that?”

“Oh, just open it.” She leans forward, eyeing him expectantly. “Please?”

“As you wish.” He glances down, and immediately rolls his eyes when he reads the label. “I see you are maintaining tradition.”

She grins. “Only because you prove me right every year, Grinch.”

He plucks the bow from the present and reaches over to place it on her head before he starts tearing away the paper. What took her almost twenty minutes to accomplish, he undoes in less than one, letting the paper fall to the floor as he lifts the lid off the box.

She leans in further for a better view when he peers inside.

“It is—” His expression is carefully neutral. “—colorful.”

That he’s trying so hard not to offend her is possibly the most precious thing she has ever seen him do. It’s very, very hard not laugh, but somehow, she manages.

“Do you like it?” She asks, hoping the innocence she’s feigning is passable.

“I… It is a thoughtful gift.” Abelas says, though he's having trouble maintaining eye contact.

He reaches into the box, and pulls out the most appalling Christmas sweater Evelyn has ever laid eyes on, bold red with a stop light green tree emblazoned on the front, colorful puffs of cotton, shiny buttons, and strings of beads decorating the tree, and a bright yellow star on top of it that actually lights up. She checked, before she bought it. It works.

"But do you like it?"

"It is… beyond compare." He smiles, or tries to, a tight quirk of his mouth that looks more pained than grateful. She almost feels bad. "Truly."

He lifts it to inspect it further, but holds it as far away as possible, as if it might come to life at any moment and attack him.

The laugh she has tried so hard to contain bursts out with a loud snort.

He groans, but his shoulders sag in relief. “I am not certain whether I should throw this at you, or make you wear it in public.”

“There’s a third option here, if you care to hear it.” She tugs the sweater out of his hands.

His mouth draws back in a faint smirk. “Go on.”

“I could wear it, right now, with nothing else.” She offers, a teasing smile sliding into place. “What do you think?”

He tugs at one of the ribbons curling off the bow on top of her head.

“Wear this too, and we have an agreement.”


	8. Bethany/Cullen - Inquisitor!Bethany AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr ask meme fic - Adjusting the other's tie/clothes/jewelry/etc

Bethany is not ready for this.

She stares at herself in the full length mirror for entirely too long, hardly recognizing the woman staring back. Nothing is amiss, precisely—the same dark eyes return her gaze, set in a face she knows well, dark hair curling down to frame that face as it always has.

Perhaps it’s the uniform.

Stiff, red, _official_.

She’s never worn its like before. Carver would wear it well, she thinks. Proudly. Her sister, on the other hand... would forego the uniform entirely, simply to be scandalous.

The sash doesn’t sit to her liking, so she fiddles with it, pulls it up, tugs it back down, tiny adjustments that don’t seem to help.

She is almost grateful when someone knocks on her door. Waiting on the other side of it, however, is yet another complication—one that she wants, despite how she shouldn’t.

“Commander Cullen,” she greets, _Knight_ left off long ago, but she still remembers the weight of it on her tongue, though it was a short tenure, and ended by his own choice to leave the order. “Is everyone waiting on me?”

Cullen almost looks crestfallen at her apparent readiness, as if he hoped she would give him a reason to stall. “I wouldn’t mind waiting longer, should you require the time.”

“If I have to go, _you_ have to go.” She reminds him, a small smile forming at his disappointment.

He sighs. “I suppose you’re right. The sooner this starts, the sooner it can _end_.”

Orlais does not agree with him. Nor her, for that matter, but this is a game she must play to the end, and... She has always been curious what a ball, a _real_ ball, with dancing and intrigue, would be like.

Still. A little stalling won’t hurt.

“Hurry." Her voice drops to a conspiratory whisper as she stands back from the door to open a path. “Before anyone sees us.”

He ducks inside with the ghost of a smile, and she closes the door behind him. It occurs to her as she turns to face him that anyone who might have seen his entrance would assume a far less innocent intent at work, and though the idea makes her smile in amusement, it also makes her blush.

Bethany puts it from her mind before the thought can go too far, but her blush brightens when she finds him staring at her.

“You look beautiful.” He says, though their outfits are identical. His eyes widen as he speaks, as if the words weren’t meant to go from thought to sound. “I’m sorry, I meant—”

“Thank you.” She cuts off his apology with a smile. He always seems to do that, assume that his compliments are unwelcome. They aren’t. “You wear it better, I think. I can’t get the sash to sit right.” She glances down, and fiddles with it further. “It’s too… “

“Here, I can—” Cullen moves into her space, hands reaching around her waist to tuck the sash in tighter at her back, an awkward embrace that lands her hands against his chest. He stiffens all of a sudden, as if he’s only just realized their proximity. “It’s, um. It should…” He draws back, the faintest hint of red alight in his cheeks, and straightens the sash at the front of her jacket. “There.”

She catches his hand, and squeezes it gently with gloved fingers before letting go. “Thank you."

"Of course." He smiles. "I have some experience with uniforms, at least. Orlesian politics, however... This is where Josephine and Leliana come in."

"Speaking of..." She squares her shoulders, ready as she’ll ever be. "I suppose it's now or never."

He offers his arm. "Into the lion’s den?"

Bethany links her arm with his. "Only if you save me a dance. I've always wanted to do that part."


End file.
